Guess I don’t matter to him, either.
The door closes, separating us. I sag against the wall, wishing I could bring Troy back to me, wishing I could reach them both.
Stupid Layton family. I really do hate them.
With every tear that escapes my eyes, I hate them a little bit more.
12
Edmund
Troy storms past my room and goes into his. I throw on some shorts and follow him.
“I don’t want to fucking talk to you right now.” He yanks open his dresser and grabs a shirt and sweatpants.
I lean against the doorframe and fold my arms over my chest. “She’s an Aseyev. We never should’ve invited her here.”
“Fuck you. You knew what we were doing. You were on board.”
“Yeah, I know. I know.” But I never thought she was that involved in the family. Not involved enough to get their symbol tattooed on her body. That shit’s permanent.
Like this arrangement was ever permanent? It wasn’t. It can’t be. I don’t know where I thought it was going. All I thought was—she’s sexy. She’s a challenge. This is fun. Also, my father wants me to keep her close. Hooking up with Danica is a no-brainer.
But taking care of her after her panic attack made everything even more real. It made me care.
Who am I fucking kidding. Watching her face off against her family after Patrick attacked her friend—that’s when I started falling for the Aseyev princess.
The Aseyev angel.
Troy won’t even look at me. He’ll get over it, I guess.
I return to my room and fall back onto my bed. My sheets smell like Danica, like sweet waffle cones and vanilla.
She told us to lose her number. We probably should. This could never work.
My phone buzzes insistently from somewhere nearby. I haul myself up to hunt for it, and find it in the living room in the pile of Troy’s and my clothes that I brought in when we came inside last night. I dig through everything until I find my phone.
Several missed calls, followed by a text from my father. Have you invited Rosalind May to the gala?
Shit.
Troy
Rosalind May is a perfectly nice, perfectly respectable young woman. She holds herself with poise. Her honey-blond hair rests obediently in a demure updo, and her shimmery black dress is tasteful. She fits in with everyone else at Olivia Santiago’s gala.
But she isn’t Dani.
Edmund and I are polite to her. Luckily, I don’t have to do much with her at all—she’s Edmund’s date, and I’m the hired bodyguard. My job is to hang back. Easy enough at a gig like this. Nobody expects trouble. Just a bunch of rich assholes who need somewhere to throw their money, getting dressed up to chat with other rich assholes. Boring.
But when Edmund finds Dmitri Montrose, shit gets tense.
“Edmund.” I breathe out a warning.
“What?” Edmund’s smile is falsely innocent. “I just want to give him a friendly hello.”
With a puzzled look on her picture-perfect face, Rosalind follows Edmund over to where Dmitri stands with his date, Leah. She’s the woman from that first party, Danica’s friend. Patrick Aseyev assaulted her. I’m glad to see she looks like she’s feeling better, although her eyes flash with irritation at something Dmitri says.
Edmund reaches them. “Dmitri Aseyev. What are you doing in the Salding district?”
